Burns' Sense of Snow
by Lambent Flame
Summary: A week before Christmas, a terrible storm sets in, and Mr. Burns and Smithers enjoy a relatively normal evening together...until Smithers decides to give his Christmas present for Mr. Burns a week early, prompting some frank discussions between the two.
1. Chapter 1

Burns' Sense of Snow

A ferocious squall set in, whipping the side of Mr. Burns' limousine with an icy blow of air, sending the rear wheels skidding momentarily before Smithers turned the steering wheel in the same direction to counter the motion. "Good Lord, the weather is getting worse by the minute!" He slowed down as a blustery wind flung a sudden onslaught of sleet against the windshield. "Don't worry, sir. I'll get you home safe and sound."

"Yeesh. Don't be so dramatic, Smithers. The way you're carrying on, you'd think this was the storm of the century."

A few minutes later, they arrived at Burns Manor, and Smithers led Mr. Burns to his door, holding his coat over Burns' head to keep his cheeks from being burned by the chill and holding him by his shoulders to keep him from being swept off his feet. Once inside, Smithers replaced his coat, poured him a glass of champagne, and drew him a warm bath. Once Mr. Burns disrobed and submersed himself in the water, Smithers turned on the TV in front of him.

"This is Kent Brockman of Channel 6 News, reporting live outside in the midst of what our meteorologists are calling the storm of the century. Expect rolling blackouts, frozen pipelines, slick, icy streets, and the dissolution of civilization as we know it." Smithers gave him a look of "didn't I tell you so?"

"Oh, those newsmen are always full of flimflam and folderol!"

"It does look pretty serious, sir. I'd better light some candles. You know, in case the power goes out." He proceeded to light a row of candles around the tub, then dipped a sponge into the water and tenderly scrubbed his scalp, a pleasant smile emerging on Smithers' face as he watched the water slide down the bridge of his nose and down his cheeks, dotting his face with little spheres of water glistening and flickering from the candlelight. Mr. Burns' scowl transformed into a smile as Smithers slid the sponge down the back of his head, wetting his hair. Smithers' gentle touch scarcely failed to soothe him, the sensation of warm water sluicing down his head warming the cockles of his heart.

As Smithers began rubbing shampoo in, Mr. Burns tilted his head back a bit, closed his eyes, and said, "There's nothing quite as pleasing as a warm bath on a cold night, eh, Smithers?"

"I couldn't agree more." He squeezed the sponge over his head and rinsed the shampoo out, then cupped water in his hands and splashed it against his head, running his fingers through Burns' hair between scoops of bathwater. When he had finished, he fetched a towel and slung it over his shoulder, then returned and held out his arms to take Burns' hands in his. He helped lift him up and out of the bathtub, then dabbed the towel on his chest and shoulders and rubbed it around his head before finally tying it around his waist. "Feel better, sir?"

"Yes, thank you, Smithers."

Smithers beamed at the compliment and retrieved his robe with alacrity, then held it open and let Mr. Burns step into it. He began extinguishing the candle flames one by one with a snuffer. As he did so, he said, "Would you like to go to bed now?"

"No, I think I'll stay up a while longer." He shivered. "What a cruel travesty of nature! No matter how delightfully warm a bath is, once you step out of it, you're almost instantly colder than when you went in."

"You have a profound, observational wit. Go sit by the fireplace; I'll be there soon with a nice, warm quilt and hot cocoa." Mr. Burns left and Smithers finished putting out the candles.

He rejoined Mr. Burns where he sat on a burgundy velvet-draped sofa and greeted him with a thick quilt and a cup of hot chocolate with a handful of miniature marshmallows floating on the surface, merging into an amorphous mass as they melted. He set the handle of the mug in Burns' fingers and draped the quilt over his lap.

"Smithers! What are these glutinous berry-bearing plants strewn across the brickmoulds?"

"That's the mistletoe, sir. One tradition is for the two people caught under it to pluck the berries one by one, kissing each other once for each berry plucked."

"What a silly tradition."

"I think it's whimsical."

Mr. Burns took a sip and smiled as the warmth spread through him. In a meek, pleading voice, he called, "Smithers...?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I want more marshmallows."

"Certainly. How many more do you want?"

"Four."

"No problem." He left for the kitchen and came back with eight miniature marshmallows. He plopped four into Burns' cocoa.

"I've changed my mind. I want one more."

"Of course," he said, dropping one more in. "I always bring extras in case you want more or I drop some." He put one in his mouth. "Want one?" he said, holding one out between his thumb and index finger in front of Burns' lips. Mr. Burns opened his mouth, and Smithers popped it inside, watching as he closed his eyes in pleasure as he chewed. "Do you want another?"

"Oh, no. I'm quite content. You finish them."

He smiled and put the last one into his own mouth, relishing in the simple pleasure of sharing marshmallows with the man of his dreams. "Are you starting to warm up, sir?"

"Yes, albeit slowly."

"Here," he said, removing his coat and draping it around Burns' chest, tucking it around his waist. "Is that better?"

"A little."

Smithers could see he was still shivering. "Anything else I can do for you?"

"Hold me, Smithers."

"It'll be my pleasure." He stretched one arm around his shoulders and brought the other to his chest, inhaling deeply as he took comfort in the sluggardly, irregular beats of his heart, cherishing each one more than the last. He stroked circles around his chest, ostensibly to warm him up. "I don't want you catching a chest cold," he said, guiltily rushing to explain his actions. "The last time you were hospitalized with pneumonia, I was so worried, I couldn't sleep for a week."

"You have always had such a solicitous spirit."

"Why, thank you, sir."

"Oh, that long car ride has my lumbago acting up again. Smithers, I need you and your magic fingers to give me a rubdown."

"Yes, sir! I'll be back in a jiffy with the massage table."

"No, don't bother," he said, grabbing Smithers' wrist as he stood. "Just do me here."

"Anything you say."

Mr. Burns turned so his back faced Smithers, who began by rubbing his shoulders. "Enough dawdling and get to the main event!" He pushed aside Smithers' jacket and opened his robe, letting it fall down to his waist. Smithers brought the quilt up to cover the front of his chest and shoulders, then rubbed progressively lower down his back, eliciting moans of pleasure. "Oh, Smithers, you never cease to amaze me. How did you get to be so good at this?"

"I once worked at a massage parlor." He continued to rub lower, his face flushing as he kneaded the skin and muscle just below his ribcage. He stopped lowering his hands just above the hips, trepidatious that he might lose himself in his passion and go too far.

"Don't be shy," he said, his tone scolding. Smithers lowered his hands again to just above the buttocks. "Oh, wait. I know the reason you're being so hesitant."

"You do?"

"Yes. I should be lying down for this."

"Do you want me to get the massage table, sir, because I really think -"

"No, I'll just lie down here," he said, lying on his stomach as Smithers got up to make room for him on the sofa. "Get up on top of me." Smithers stopped breathing as his eyes glazed over, stupefied. "For leverage, you dunderhead." His clarifying response only intensified Smithers' panic. Did Mr. Burns realize he wanted something else? Was he testing him, waiting for him to slip and fire him the instant he revealed his true desire?

"Of course. Good thinking." He climbed back onto the sofa and straddled Mr. Burns' hips, then commenced the deep massage of his lower back and buttocks. "Mmm..." he moaned unconsciously, then, upon noticing Burns' head turned up and back to face him with a suspicious glint in his eye, added, "that was great hot cocoa!" Placated by his excuse, he rested his head back down onto the cushion.

"What would I do without you, Smithers?" he said in a dreamy, far-off voice.

"I don't know what I'd do without _you_."

"My dear, dear, Smithers... Smithers, that feels...excellent." As Mr. Burns moaned into the pillow, Smithers reached the threshold of bursting. "Oh, Smithers...I love you."

"And I love you, sir!" He felt Mr. Burns become rigid in his hands. "I mean...I'm really glad you're enjoying my massage. I love making you happy."

"Yes... That will be sufficient for tonight." He sat up, and Smithers moved his hands away. Even with his abrupt withdrawal, the evening was shaping up to be one of his best in recent memory. He guided Burns' arms into the sleeves of his robe and pulled the quilt over them both.

"I've always loved this quilt of yours," said Smithers. "So many squares depicting your family's illustrious history. And the craftsmanship on it is outstanding."

"Yes, well my relatives hired the best seamstresses of the day to make them."

"It's so great you have your family's history all laid out like this. So many memories, so many stories that could've been lost forever."

"You're a sentimental man, aren't you, Smithers?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"I do. Tell me, what drives a man like you to like a man like me?"

"What's there not to like?"

"I often do things you consider 'wrong'. You're a decent, agreeable fellow who could enjoy an active social life with his peers. Most young men want nothing to do with cantankerous old codgers such as myself."

"That's what I love about you, though. You're vivacious, you have a sparkling wit, and you're quaintly charming. Sure, we have our disagreements...but that doesn't mean I don't like you."

"Still. When we attend social functions, you always stay by my side instead of mingling with the crowd."

"Well, I'm not exactly of the same standing as the crowds you run in."

"That didn't stop Ellen Quayle from pursuing you."

"Oh, her. She wasn't...my type."

"She was gorgeous, though! I love those pouty lips, that sizzle in her step! I envied you."

"There's really nothing to envy, sir. I don't get much action with the ladies."

"It's no wonder when you're so picky. Tell me, then, what is your type?"

"My type? Hm...yes, um, my type. My type is...svelte. Distinguished. Lively. Witty. Powerful, with a wicked streak." He sighed a lovelorn sigh. "I need more champagne, do you want more champagne?" he said, getting up.

"No, I'm satisfied." When Smithers sat down beside him again, champagne in hand, Mr. Burns said, "I know why you don't pursue women."

Smithers choked on his champagne. "You do?"

"You are too reserved. It's as though you're trying desperately to hide something from everyone around you."

"What gave you that idea, sir?"

"I've carried secrets for decades, and many I will yet carry to my grave, but still, I never carried my cards so closely to my chest as you do. What does a man as decent as you have to hide? What are you carrying, Waylon?" The lights went out and all that illuminated their faces was the flickering firelight.

"Oh, dear. The storm must have taken out a power line. I'll go get the backup generators running."

"I shall accompany you so I don't get lonesome in the dark. Here. Carry this torch for me." He lit a torch from the fireplace and handed it to him.

"Yes, sir." As they traversed the cavernous mansion, a window blew open and blew out the torchlight.

"Take my hand and guide me, Smithers."

"Gladly, sir." They walked hand in hand to the generator, where Smithers used the light of his phone to see the mechanism and set it in motion. The lights switched back on and they headed back through the halls.

"Let's freshen our drinks. Come to the bar with me, Smithers."

"Yes, sir." He followed Mr. Burns to the bar, where he poured more champagne for Burns and himself.

Swishing the champagne contemplatively in his glass, he said, "Are you lonely, Smithers?"

"No, sir. How could I be lonely when I spend so much of my life with you?"

"Living with someone can be lonelier than living entirely alone."

"Well, I'm not lonely."

"Is that why you've chosen celibacy?"

"Um...what?"

"I'm not a fool, Smithers. It hasn't escaped my notice that I'm having more sex than you despite being sixty years your senior."

"Oh, right, right. All that sex I'm, uh, not having. What makes you think it's by choice?"

"You haven't been with a woman since your wife left you. I've never seen you pursue a woman, and you've rebuffed the advances of a number of attractive women, so it's clearly not because you can't get a woman."

"Well, you see...the reason I don't look for a girlfriend, it's..."

"Your heart is promised to another."

"No, I - it's...oh, what the hell. I'm sick of pretending, and I'm sure you're sick of listening to my flimsy excuses. You're right, Mr. Burns. I am hopelessly in love."

"You don't need to pretend with me anymore."

"You don't know how relieved I am to hear you say that. Monty, I love -"

"I know. You still love your wife." _No!_ Smithers screamed in his head. _No! I love_ you _. Tell him, Waylon, tell him now. You won't have a better opportunity._

"Oh, right. Yes, that's it." He took a sip and let the silence hang palpably in the air for a handful of seconds before issuing a conflicted grunt. "No, Mr. Burns. That's not it."

"You aren't fooling me. Yours is the face of a man struggling with an unrequited love. That's why you've sunk yourself into your work so much, isn't it?"

"Actually, that is exactly right. I'm in love with my work. You could say I'm married to my job. Or at least, I'd like to be." He set his glass, now emptied of its liquor, down on the table. "Mr. Burns, I'd like to give you your Christmas gift."

"Now? Christmas isn't for another week."

"I know but...the time feels right. Follow me to the auditorium."


	2. Chapter 2

Burns' Sense of Snow

They entered the auditorium and Smithers took to the stage and sat at the grand piano there. He donned a pair of heart-shaped glasses, cracked his knuckles, and hovered his fingers above the keys. "There's nothing I can buy that's worthy of you. So, I wrote you this song. I call it, _Our Song_." He began playing a delicate, romantic tune and sang:

 _I'm a little bit dizzy... I'm reeling inside_

 _I'm not good at hiding; Lord knows I have tried_

 _Don't have a fortune but boy if I did_

 _I'd buy us an island or a castle near Madrid_

 _If I was a surfer but then again no_

 _Or a man who pays pensions between writing rondeaux_

 _Oh I know it's not much but it's the best I can do_

 _My gift is my song_

 _And this one's for you_

 _And I won't tell anybody this is our song_

 _Some say it's quite sinful but I know it's not wrong_

 _I hope you don't mind_

 _I hope you don't mind_

 _That I wrote down this verse_

 _Celebrating life since you've been in my world_

 _I lie in my bed and dream of my boss_

 _Well I've weathered your curses, well now I'm at a loss_

 _But I burned quite brightly_

 _While I wrote this song_

 _It's for you, sir, the one who_

 _Makes it burn on_

 _So don't blame me for getting the courage to coo_

 _You see I have tried but I can't seem to get through_

 _Anyway the truth is though you can be mean_

 _You have the sweetest soul I've ever seen_

 _And I won't tell anybody this is our song_

 _Some say it's quite sinful but I know it's not wrong_

 _I hope you don't mind_

 _I hope you don't mind that I wrote down this verse_

 _Celebrating life since you've been in my world_

 _I hope you don't mind_

 _I hope you don't mind that I wrote down this verse_

 _Celebrating life since you've been in my world_

Smithers awaited his response with bated breath. "Well, sir? What do you think?"

"Smithers, that...that was so sweet...so sweet I'm shocked it didn't give me diabetes! I've heard better ditties on Folgers commercials. Whatever made you think I'd enjoy such a trite tune?"

"I...I don't know, sir." Smithers winced. "Oh, I've been such a fool! What was I thinking?"

"Clearly you weren't."

Smithers sniffled. "Excuse me, sir. I have to go. I have something in my eye!"

"I've had an eye wash station installed down the hall, twenty-third door to the right." Smithers ran off. "Oh, dear. I've made a terrible mistake! It's the twenty-third door to the _left_." He ran to the hall entrance. "Smithers! Smithers, I'm afraid I misdirected you..." he said, entering the hallway. Noting that Smithers was nowhere in sight, he said, "Smithers?" He heard a faint whimpering sound emanating from behind his closet door. The closet itself was larger than most master bedrooms, lined with racks of suits, coats, and costumes. Smithers sat curled up between a rack of teal suits and one of navy blue suits, sobbing into his knees. "Smithers...?" He spread the suits to either side, exposing Smithers to his gaze.

"Ah! Mr. Burns! Leave me alone," he said, his voice broken by weepy gasps. "I don't want you to see me like this!"

"Smithers, what is the matter with you?"

Between heaving wails, he said, "N-nothing!"

"This is about what I said about your song, isn't it?" Smithers nodded quietly before bursting into tears again. "For God's sake, man! So I didn't like your song. That's no reason to turn on the waterworks! Why does it bother you so?"

After letting out an anguished, tear-broken sigh, Smithers spat out, "Because I love you and you don't give a damn about me." His pupils narrowed in fear.

After a prolonged silence, Mr. Burns sat beside him and placed his hand on Smithers' shoulder, Smithers' crying easing up into a spate of sniffling gasps. He said, "That's not true. You know that's not true."

"Then prove it."

He ran his hand down Smithers' neck and squeezed his shoulder, causing Smithers to whimper. "For one thing, I wouldn't bother trying to comfort you if I didn't care."

"That's true."

"We have fun together, don't we?"

"That's true."

"I undertook a treacherous journey to Canada to save your life, didn't I?"

"I remember...mmm - I mean, that's true."

"I like you, Smithers. I like you a lot. I guess sometimes I take you for granted. You have always been there for me, and your performance record is so immaculate that sometimes I forget you have the same human frailties as anyone else."

"I do. And...I like you, too, sir. A lot. And I'm not just saying that because you pay my salary."

"I know."

"I just...I poured my heart out into that song, and I really hoped you would like it. I can't stand failing you like that. If I can't even give you a decent present..."

"It was a good present, Waylon."

"But...but I thought you hated it."

"I did at first...but I hate everything at first. I can't get that sentimental melody out of my head, and it's been growing on me. Play it for me again."

"I don't know..."

"Please?"

Smithers smiled. "How could I say no to you?"

Once again seated before the grand piano, Smithers prepared himself to sing again. It was much harder to get into the proper state of mind after his emotional state had been so thoroughly ravaged, but all it took was to focus on Burns' tender touch and words.

"Don't start yet," said Mr. Burns as he got on the stage. "Maybe I just couldn't hear it well enough the first time. My hearing isn't as sharp as it used to be." He climbed on top of the piano and lay there. Smithers stared at him with a smile and serenaded him again. As he concluded his piece, Smithers glanced apprehensively up at him, then after a few seconds with no response, shut his eyes for a moment and looked to the ground. Mr. Burns put his hand around the side of Smithers' neck and shored up a compliment. "Well, it certainly is heartfelt."

"It is, sir."

Mr. Burns' eyes drifted and he aimlessly yet intently looked into the distance. "I don't mind."

"Hm?"

"Your song. You said you hope I don't mind. I don't."

"That means the world to me, Monty."

"I have a present for you, too. Get us some nog, with rum and cognac, and meet me by the fireplace," he said, getting down from the piano. After a few minutes, they met back on the sofa by the fireplace, Smithers with two glasses of spiked eggnog and Mr. Burns with a large box that looked like it was too heavy for him to carry. He set it down on a table by the fire. "I put a lot of thought into this, so you had better like it."

"It's from you; of course I'll like it!"

"Of course," he said as Smithers untied the ribbon, revealing the familiar pink packaging of a Malibu Stacy doll.

"Nuclear Technician Stacy?"

"I know you collect them, but I didn't know which ones you had, so I had them make up a new one. This one isn't even on the shelves yet."

"Oh, Monty, you did that for me?" He hugged Mr. Burns. "Sorry, sir, I just was overcome with emotion."

"As is your propensity."

"This is the best gift I've ever gotten."

"Look in the box. There's more." He reached into the box and pulled out two more doll packages. Doll versions of themselves. Smithers' jaw lowered as he emitted a flabbergasted gasp of awe. "I had these made specially. They are the only ones in existence."

"I'm so conflicted! Do I keep these unique, incredibly valuable dolls mint in box, or do I open them and markedly decrease their value? Oh, who am I kidding? Nothing's more valuable than the enjoyment I'll get from playing with a gift from you." He opened the packaging and moved the Smithers doll, saying, " _Thank you for the present, sir._ " He moved the Burns doll to say, " _I'm glad you enjoy it._ " Then he had them shake hands.

"Oh, that's not how you play with them! Here," he said, taking the Smithers doll. " _I love being your lickspittle, Mr. Burns. Perhaps I'll write another mawkish melody to tell you how much I love it._ "

Smithers took the Burns doll. " _I wouldn't like that, Smithers. God only knows why, since I can't get enough of you stroking my ego._ "

Mr. Burns put the Smithers doll down, while Smithers clutched his Burns doll more tightly. Mr. Burns laid his hand on Smithers'. "I'm sorry, Waylon. You didn't deserve that. When I insulted you, I mean."

"Thank you, Monty. That means a lot to me."

"I really don't mind."

"Don't mind what?"

"The way you feel about me."

"You don't?"

"No. I don't."

"I'm terrified to ask, but...how do you feel about me?"

"I'm very fond of you. Not as fond as you are of me, but...very fond."

Smithers blushed and looked shyly to his feet. "It'd just be redundant by now, but I long to say it. I need to say it." He took Burns' hands in his own. "Monty, I love you, with all my heart." He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, relishing his scent.

"I'm glad you do." He withdrew his hands from Smithers' to take a sip of his nog. "This needs more cognac." Smithers took the glass and approached the bar, then got the cognac out.

He followed Smithers in the direction of the bar, stopping in the doorway as Smithers added the cognac. Smithers handed him his glass and watched nervously as he took a sip. "Excellent, Smithers."

Smithers stole a glance at his face, then blushed and looked down to Burns' feet. "I suppose now I can tell you...you are too beautiful for this world, sir."

Mr. Burns looked up, then down to his shoes where Smithers' eyes were fixed. "We're standing beneath the mistletoe."

"I understand if you don't want to kiss me this year."

"You don't get to tell me what I want to do," he said, setting his glass on a nearby shelf. He looked back up at the mistletoe. "How many berries on that sprig?"

"Eight."

"Brace yourself," he said, though it was unclear to Smithers whether he was talking to Smithers or to himself. He took Smithers' hands in his and held them low between them, pulling Smithers' arms slightly down as he puckered up and leaned forward. Smithers turned his face, presenting his cheek for kissing. Mr. Burns brought his middle and index fingers to Smithers' chin and turned his face back to face him, then put his hand around the back of Smithers' neck and pushed their lips together. He kissed him eight times consecutively, opening his lips each time yet inviting only the edge of Smithers' lips between his. It was not the kissing with abandon characteristic of libidinous passion, but the fragile, tender zone between comradely and romantic love. Smithers moaned and kissed him between kisses.

"Those weren't pity kisses."

"No, they weren't."

"Then, uh...what kind of kisses were they?"

"Affectionate. I have no intention of hopping into bed with you, but...I like doing that." Smithers stopped breathing and his hands started shaking. In short order, his eyes rolled back and he fell straight back to the floor in a faint. "Smithers!" He came to in about ten seconds and tilted his head up.

"M-Mr. Burns? What happened?"

"I told you I like kissing you and you fainted." Smithers' head plopped back onto the floor as he lost consciousness again. The second time he came around, Mr. Burns was at the ready with his eggnog, holding his head up to allow him to drink. Swabbing Smithers' forehead with a damp cloth, he said, "I admit, I am awfully flattered to be the cause of your swooning."

He finished a sip of eggnog and said, "You're a fantastic kisser."

"You're just kissing my ass."

"Oh, I wish!" Mr. Burns shot him a look of disgust. "But seriously. I would rather kiss you than have sex with anyone else. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. I can't tell you that often enough. I have to make up for twenty years of not telling you."

"Get up already," he said, taking Smithers' hand and leading him to the sofa to lie down. He sat on the edge of the sofa seat, still holding Smithers' hand. "I enjoy the way you touch me. But I don't want to have you the same way you want me." He caressed the back of Smithers' hand and looked away from him. "But someday, I will."

"Huh? But sir, that doesn't make any -"

"I'm scared, Smithers. I'm scared because sometimes I think someday already came."


End file.
